


Better Communication

by what_on_io



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Fluff, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Sharing a Bed, communication issues, fluffy fluffy fluff, nobody knows how to communicate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1461373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_on_io/pseuds/what_on_io
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg and Mycroft have had an... <i>arrangement</i> for about a year now. Well, not about, per se. It's been <i>exactly</i> a year - not that the date means anything to either one of them. It's just a number, anyway. They certainly aren't going to <i>address</i> the issue of their, erm... anniversary. </p>
<p>Angst and communication issues ensue, with some tooth-rotting fluff to top it all off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing Official

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Mystrade fic and my first post in the Sherlock fandom - so please go easy on me! Unbeta'd, as per, but heavily proofread - if you spot any errors, I'd appreciate you pointing them out, thanks! Enjoy xx

Greg has been trying to ignore the date. He'd turned over the calendar on his desk a fortnight ago, and while he wouldn't say he particularly misses the humorous daily cat photos that Donovan had bought him last Christmas for a laugh, he's getting a bit sick of not having anything to distract him from the onslaught of paperwork that he's been loaded up with since the last major case had been wrapped up.

It's no use, anyway. The date's engrained on his mind despite his best efforts - avoiding the newspaper, purposely angling himself away from the wall calendar in the office, stripping down the one in the flat and refusing to even acknowledge the one at Mycroft's. Well, attempting to, anyway. He still sneaks a glance every time he's yanking his shoes on in the hall in order to make a hasty retreat so he doesn't turn up late to work _again_ (but _goddamn_ the man's distracting and he's been caught off guard more times than can be explained away by a broken alarm clock now. He'd like to say nobody suspects anything, but he knows the vague comments from Anderson are always aimed in his direction anyway) and he's disappointed and pretends not to be every time he catches sight of the 21st and the lack of embellishment surrounding it. Anything would do, at this point. He wouldn't give a damn if it was just a goddamn dentist appointment, just anything to distract him from the distinct lack of _anything_.

It's not like he expected Mycroft to cover the date in little red hearts or brand Greg's name across it in his elegant script. He'd just like some form of acknowledgement, although he _knows_ it's stupid and he _knows_ Mycroft probably doesn't even _remember_ that it's almost been a year since they first shagged.

It isn't as if he doesn't know how ridiculous he's being. Of _course_ Mycroft doesn't remember. He doesn't expect him to. Greg isn't sure why _he_ remembers, to be honest. He just knows that a year ago this week, he'd ended up accepting one of Mycroft's cars home because it had been late and raining and he'd left his car at the station before being dragged on an impromptu jaunt across London after Sherlock on a case. He remembers Mycroft sitting beside him in the back of the car, remembers noticing the distinct lack of his ever-present PA, remembers the heat of Mycroft's body next to his as they sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the backseat. He remembers wondering why Mycroft had to sit so damn _close_ \- the car was plenty big enough for them to spread out. He was going to _notice_ , dammit, and Greg had been congratulating himself on not making a slip in the man's presence before. He'd been very successful in hiding the blush that rose to his neck during those rare occasions Mycroft had spared him a smile, and even more so, he liked to think, in angling his crotch in just the right way so that Mycroft wouldn't suspect a thing whenever he got a little too close.

Greg remembers thinking that it was all going to go to hell now.

It turned out that he hadn't been doing all that good a job, as he found out when the other man turned in his seat to whisper hotly in Greg's ear, the observations and deductions pouring out of Mycroft's lips managing to sound sexy and impressive all at once.

And _Christ_ , Greg thought it was annoying when Sherlock did it, but he'd honestly never been more turned on in his life.

He'd expected it to be more than a bit awkward, afterward - trying to fasten his belt whilst extracting himself from the car, sticky and sweaty and panting, but Mycroft had simply said "You look like you could use a shower. Clean up at mine. There's ample room for you to stay the night, if you wish." And then they'd had a repeat performance in Mycroft's huge bathtub-turned-jacuzzi, bodies slick with water, kissing and sucking at every available inch of skin, and Greg had collapsed across Mycroft's chest afterwards so that the man had practically had to carry him to the bedroom.

Greg remembers Mycroft turning to leave after tucking Greg under the covers, and sleepily reaching out for his lover's hand to pull him back towards the bed, not caring if the request was untoward "Stay, My. Stay with me." And Mycroft _had_ , and he was still there when Greg woke up in the morning, sunlight playing across his auburn hair, tucked up so tightly against Greg's body that it was a wonder they'd both managed to remain on the bed.

Greg had caught sight of the calendar on the way out, creeping around the house so as not to wake his sleeping lover, and mentally catalogued the date. _I just had sex with Mycroft Holmes_ , his mind rejoiced as he left the huge house to find his own car already parked in the driveway. He'd driven back to the station grinning like an idiot to himself, and didn't stop even when Anderson remarked that he was still wearing yesterday's clothes.

So, yes, he remembers. Too much, probably. They've never announced that they're together - they're _not_ together, which is partly the problem - and they've never really discussed the prospect of being exclusive, either. Greg suspects Mycroft would laugh, give him a thousand reasons why he was being ridiculous - Mycroft's the British government, for God's sake, he doesn't have time for complications as mundane as a _relationship_ ; The Work has to come first, he's _Mycroft Holmes_ , he doesn't _do_ relationships anyway, because caring is definitely _not_ an advantage - and silence his protests with a kiss and the suggestion of moving things to the bedroom.

And even if Mycroft found he _did_ want something as pedestrian as a relationship, it probably wouldn't be with Greg, anyway. He's not an idiot, despite what Sherlock might think, and he's heard Mycroft's ridiculous goldfish analogy countless times when Mycroft's complaining about some poor sod he's come into contact with at his office, and he's never been anywhere near Mycroft's level intellectually, has he? He imagines, one day, walking in on his lover with some other bloke, talking extreme politics or rapid-firing deductions at each other the way he's seen him do with his brother a thousand times. He's imagined it all, right down to the exasperated glance Mycroft will spare Greg before dismissing him with a casual flick of his wrist, a silent assertion of _we're busy_. It's not as if Greg's an insecure sort of bloke, really, just realistic. Although the words _open relationship_ have never come up directly in conversation, they've always been lurking beneath the surface somewhere, unspoken but implied.

Not that Greg's ever acted upon it (and, as far as he knows, Mycroft hasn't either). It would feel like a betrayal, yes, but that's not why he's avoided it - he has what he wants, even if Mycroft isn't fully aware of it. It's never been just about the sex between them, either - Greg was surprised the first time Mycroft cooked breakfast for him, but they'd sat at the dining room table over scrambled eggs, chatting as if they'd been together for years.

Breakfast had turned into dinner two nights a week; their meals are always followed by an alarming but never unwelcome snuggling session in front of the fire. Somehow, Greg had never clocked Mycroft as the cuddling type, but the man is surprisingly affectionate when they're entwined on the plush leather sofa together, pressing gentle kisses to Greg's forehead and occasionally tucking his head into the crook of Greg's neck as if he wishes he could burrow under his skin. They always cuddle after sex, too, of course, but the act itself doesn't always happen - Greg is content to fall asleep together on the couch, and even though sometimes Mycroft is almost insistent that they move things upstairs, Greg feels it's important to let him know that, occasionally, just the cuddling is fine, which always seems to surprise his lover. Mycroft always smiles and relaxes into Greg's easy embrace anyway.

So, yeah. It might not officially be a relationship, but Greg figures it's the closest he's going to get with Mycroft. And he's okay with that. Really, he is.

* * *

 

Mycroft can't ignore the date. He needs to be on top of things if he wants to avoid seeing the country fall to ruin, obviously, so, the morning of the twenty-first, he's hyper aware of Gregory's body next to his on their shared bed when he gets up to send off an email that he should have written days ago. He's typing quickly, nimble fingers skimming across the keypad of his phone as he makes his way down to the kitchen to make coffee. The date stares up at him from his phone when he locks it, email completed and sent. The twenty-first of March. Exactly a year since...

Well. It doesn't matter, does it? Gregory hasn't said anything, anyway, so Mycroft reasons that he shouldn't even consider...

He shuts off the train of thought there before it can get too far away from him. Gregory hasn't shown any signs of remembering, although Mycroft's been on the lookout for days. He realises that buying flowers or a card is probably the proper thing to do on such an anniversary, but their relationship can hardly be classed as ordinary, can it? They've never spoken about it, of course, but Gregory has never been shy - Mycroft assumes he'd bring the subject up if he ever wanted to discuss it further. He hasn't, though, which is to be expected, and really, who can blame him? Mycroft knows he isn't the most approachable of people, that sometimes he can come off as downright cold, but he'd tried to avoid that with Gregory - accepting - no, revelling in - pecks on the cheek, lingering touches on the shoulders and, of course, the cuddling on the sofa. And it's wonderful, it really is, just... surprising, really. It had always been obvious that Gregory desired him sexually - Mycroft couldn't miss the signals whenever he found himself in the man's company, although the reasoning behind that desire remained unclear to him. He'd never been brave enough to act upon the deductions until that night - a whole year ago now - when he was feeling particularly reckless and quite pleased that Sherlock had managed to wrap up a particularly important case (with the help of a certain Detective Inspector, of course) without him having to step in. Gregory had reacted in exactly the way Mycroft had expected him to - predictability could be such a useful thing sometimes - until they'd gone back to the house under the pretense of getting cleaned up.

From the moment Greg initiated a repeat performance in the bath, Mycroft had found himself hopelessly enraptured by the man. Gregory always managed to surprise him - and nobody surprised Mycroft Holmes. He'd surprised himself, the following day, when he had texted Gregory without it being under the pretense of meeting for work, simply - _same again tonight?_

Mycroft had to admit - it frightened him, sometimes. Or perhaps frighten wasn't the word - it intimidated him. He was becoming tangled in a horribly welcoming maze of emotions, something he'd vowed to avoid since a drunken fumble at university had resulted in a month-long relationship which had ended badly (in tears, of all the vile things, and they had mostly been on his part) - all because he had gotten too attached.

But he never refused Gregory's touches. He didn't sleep in one of the house's many guest rooms when Greg fell asleep in his bed, needy fingers reaching out to curl around his own. He allowed his lover to slip his arms around his shoulders when they reclined on the sofa together, and placed gentle kisses to Greg's warm skin.

At first he'd assumed that Greg would want to keep the relationship purely sexual. Mycroft didn't expect Gregory to seek comfort from him after a particularly taxing case, didn't expect to see him wearing one of Mycroft's shirts while he cooked breakfast, didn't expect the long, frenzied kisses and intense desperation that thrummed through him after spending too much time apart, when work got in the way and Greg ended up sleeping at his own flat because it was closer to the station than Mycroft's place. But it was there. He'd never been this close to another person before - never needed to be - but now that he was...

Even if Greg did want other things aside from the sex, Mycroft isn't deluded enough to think that the transition will be a lasting one. Soon enough, a woman would come along who could offer much more than Mycroft could - a family, a cosy countryside cottage, ordinary working hours - and, pretty soon, all of Gregory's things would have moved out of Mycroft's drawers, where they've accumulated over the months, the scent of his cologne would be laundered from the sheets, and Mycroft will be right back where he started. They'd have _that_ conversation, of course, the _it's been fun but it was never going to last_ conversation, and then Greg would be gone from his life except in the instances their paths would inevitably cross because of one case or another.

Now, though, Mycroft has definitely made up his mind not to act upon this whole anniversary affair, but he still wonders, briefly, what would happen if he surprised Gregory at work with flowers, or whispers _happy anniversary_ in his ear when he comes downstairs, or presents him with a heart-shaped card when he returns from work.

 _If_ he returns from work, Mycroft has to remind himself. It's equally likely that Greg will decide to sleep at his own flat tonight. Well, not equally, exactly - there's a seventy-six point four percent chance that Gregory will spend the night entwined with Mycroft in his - their - bed, as he has done for the last four weeks. He's hardly been back to his flat at all (and Mycroft hasn't been checking the CCTV footage, he really hasn't) which is absolutely _dreadful_ because it makes Mycroft resentful of the hope that blooms in his chest when he imagines the moment he suggests Gregory put the flat up for sale and move in full-time with him (not that he ever would, of course. The man needs his space, obviously, Mycroft isn't enough of a lovesick idiot just yet to neglect noticing that).

Gregory chooses this moment to wander groggily into the kitchen, scrubbing sleep from the corners of his eyes with a tired fist and blinking sleepily up at Mycroft. He's wearing another one of his shirts, Mycroft notices smugly, hiding a smile.

"Morning," Greg mumbles, sliding an arm around Mycroft's waist and leaning in for a kiss. Mycroft decides that Greg's morning breath is one of his favourite things about his just-woken lover, second only to the quite frankly endearing way Greg's hair sticks up in all directions as if he's just been out in a storm.

"Good morning," Mycroft hums into Greg's mouth, trying not to think about how ridiculously comfortable he must look right now, before he pulls away to pour the coffee.

"Toast?" he offers, and Greg nods, grinning. Mycroft sets about fiddling with the toaster while he takes control of the blush that's creeping up his neck, hindered ever so slightly when his partner comes up behind him and snakes both arms along Mycroft's shoulders, massaging gently. They sit at the kitchen counter on the plush bar stools that Greg once snorted at and called ridiculous, to eat, toast crumbs scattering across the tabletop between them. Mycroft watches Greg munch heartily at his breakfast whilst nibbling his own toast (dry; no butter) and barely manages to contain the urge to brush the stray crumbs away from Gregory's fresh stubble - he hasn't shaved yet, which means he'll probably end up late for work and forget his keys again. Mycroft makes a mental note to leave them by the door for him.

"Any plans for today?" Greg asks. Mycroft takes the query for what it is - innocent. Small talk. A simple conversation starter to break the silence that has settled over the breakfast table.

"I have a few important calls to make," Mycroft replies, struggling to keep his own tone light, "Nothing particularly taxing, though a small dispute with Russia might take a few hours to resolve."

"A small dispute with Russia," Greg echoes, shaking his head fondly at Mycroft, "Only you, Mycroft Holmes, could make that sound like settling an argument with an annoying mother-in-law."

Mycroft smiles at that, tossing half an uneaten round of his toast back onto his plate before moving to the sink to wash up, "I've had plenty of practice."

"Ever the politician, aren't you, My?" Mycroft can hear the smile in Gregory's voice although his back is turned, and smiles faintly to himself while he rinses his plate.

Predictably, a few minutes later, when Greg has peppered kisses along Mycroft's neck in an attempt to distract him from the dishes, a quiet 'oh shit' escapes his lips and, leaning over to press one last, lingering kiss to Mycroft's lips, he dashes off to get dressed, calling over his shoulder that he's going to be 'fucking late' again. Mycroft sighs contentedly to himself and finishes the dishes while he awaits his lover's return; then, because Gregory is taking an awfully long time in the bathroom (and now Mycroft can hear him cursing both his razor and the location of his car key) tidies away the toaster and realigns all the bar stools so he can stall the moment he has to go to his home office. He wants to give Greg one last kiss before he leaves for work - it is their anniversary, after all, even if Gregory hasn't realised.

It's another ten minutes before Greg launches himself back downstairs, hurriedly attempting to fasten his tie one-handed and juggling an untidy pile of paperwork in his left hand. Mycroft meets him at the bottom of the stairs, takes the papers from his hand and ushers him up a step so that he can do up his tie for him. Greg grins - he appears relieved, if slightly abashed, that Mycroft has taken over the task for him. He plants a quick, sweet kiss to Mycroft's forehead before the words 'have you seen my-' leave his lips, but Mycroft is already pressing Greg's car key into his palm.

"Thanks," Greg whispers, resting his forehead against Mycroft's.

"Have a good day, Gregory," Mycroft murmurs in response, and their lips meet once more. The kiss is chaste - no probing tongues or small pants of desperation - but it stimulates an unfurling of raw emotion in Mycroft's stomach, causing a slight twinge of worry at the thought of what would happen if he allowed that emotion to wrestle its way to the surface.

Refusing to acknowledge the image he's conjured up of Gregory's bags lined up in the driveway and a quick, clinical goodbye on the doorstep, Mycroft pulls away from the kiss first. Gregory offers him another blissful smile before plucking his paperwork from his lover's fingers, and takes the few strides necessary to reach the front door.

"I'll see you later, My, yeah? Don't work too hard," Greg calls from the hallway. Mycroft's lips quirk upwards at the corners.

"I expect you will, and I will try not to over-exert myself, on the condition that you do the same," Mycroft replies, still smiling stupidly. He imagines how ridiculous he must look now - like any one of the deplorable people he encounters when he travels to his city office - and is only slightly perturbed when the grin doesn't falter.

* * *

 

"Sir, we've got him!" Sally's voice comes over the radio just as Greg's about to follow her team in the second car, "Back-alley just round the corner from the first scene. Should we take him to the station, or d'you want us to wait until you get here?"

"Nah, it's alright. Take 'im in. I'll meet you there in ten," Greg replies, keeping his tone casual despite the elation he feels building up in his chest. It's only two in the afternoon, and catching the guy now means that things will be wrapped up rather nicely in a few hours - there's enough evidence of him killing both his wife and mistress to put him down for at least seven years without making too much of a fuss (the idiot had left the murder weapon still coated in blood in his bath, for Christ's sake)- and the case being wrapped up in a few hours means that he might even make it to Mycroft's early this evening.

It takes a startlingly short amount of time to extract the killer's confession - he ends up sobbing over the table in the interrogation room within five minutes of being in there - and only slightly longer to finish up the paperwork. Donovan brings him a coffee while Greg's finishing things up in his office, and he sips it slowly while considering his next move, which, he reasons, is going to be a foolish one.

His phone is out on the desk in front of him, and he knows it's stupid - he _knows_ \- but he's so relieved at how the day has worked out and he's finally turned the desk calendar back over so he can look at the picture of a tabby cat that's stuck outside its cat-flap, and the twenty-first is staring him in the face, and his phone is _right there_.

He doesn't give himself time to think, just opens up his most recent text thread with Mycroft and types out his message quickly.

_Happy anniversary, My - GL xx_

And then he hits send, and slams his phone face-down on the desk with such force it's a wonder the screen doesn't crack.

Greg wonders if he's ever regretted anything so quickly in his life. Probably not, he reasons, working backwards from the last time he called Sherlock in on a case that he deemed, instantly, to be a miserable three, and promptly left again, leaving Greg to endure the gloating from the other officers, to when he'd taken his motorcycle out at night without bothering with a helmet at seventeen, waking up in the hospital the next morning with three broken ribs and a concussion.

Greg reckons this pretty much trumps them both.

He doesn't really see any way he can wriggle out of it, either - he can hardly pretend someone else had sent the text - he'd signed it, why had he fucking signed it? And, more importantly, why the hell did these people feel the need to sign their damn texts? - and pretending it was a joke won't work either, because if Mycroft thought hard enough, Greg knows he'd be able to work out the dates quite quickly, and then how screwed would he be? Remembering their fucking anniversary, of all the bloody things. Mycroft will know exactly how serious Greg is about their relationship, and he'll put Greg in his place the minute he gets home - that is, if he doesn't kick him to the curb immediately, which is looking all the more likely as Greg stares at the text he's sent: the stupid kisses he's added onto the end, the pet name, and, worst of all, his stupid, stupid admission. _Yes_ , Greg thinks, _what a happy fucking anniversary this is turning out to be_.

He expects Mycroft to reply immediately - he's usually glued to his phone, and any texts Greg sends him through the day - _Fancy going out for dinner tonight? Might be home late, case is taking longer to wrap up than I thought. Tired tonight, My, probably end up sleeping at mine_ \- are usually met with a swift response. He starts to worry when ten minutes pass and his phone remains stoically silent on the desk. He can't resist checking it every other minute, anyway, but every time he picks it up only the time flashes up at him along with the stupid default background of a pier that he's never bothered to change. He hates that picture.

* * *

 

Mycroft manages until three o' clock in the afternoon, and then he stops.

He's done most of what needs to be done for the day. The remaining calls he needs to make can wait until at least Monday, and he's become so distracted by the thought of Greg returning home that his eyes can no longer make sense of the words of the email in front of him. He tries to concentrate on signing a few forms that Anthea has left in his study with a post-it attached, stating that they need to be completed by next week, but it's Friday and he has the entire weekend stretching ahead of him.

Usually, Mycroft doesn't suffer from these inane distractions. Time is a relative concept - he often works into the night, only retiring to bed when his eyes begin to drift shut of their own accord - and he hasn't considered the implications of a weekend since he was a child. But now, though, his traitorous mind is practically displaying a slide-show of the things he and Gregory could be doing together this weekend - the DI doesn't have to be in work unless something important comes up, meaning they have it all to themselves. Mycroft doesn't imagine they'll leave the bedroom.

Mycroft abandons the stack of forms and leaves his study, closing the door resolutely behind him with his phone still on the desk. He doesn't want any distractions right now, and any impending crisis can make itself known on the landline.

When he reaches the kitchen, he seriously considers what he's about to do. He has about two and a half hours until Gregory returns home from work, giving him two hours to cook dinner and thirty minutes to prepare the table and himself. He's going to cook an anniversary meal. He tells himself that if Gregory shows a complete lack of understanding as to Mycroft's motives, he can always lie and tell him he just felt like doing something special. He could probably invent a situation worthy enough of celebration - he's just narrowly avoided nuclear war, he's fashioned new trading bonds with the US that will boost the economy by two-hundred percent - hell, he'd probably even get away with offering Greg a promotion if the steak cooks nicely enough.

So he doesn't worry as he prepares the ingredients, checking his watch every so often to ensure he still has enough time to cook the raw steaks and that the dessert hasn't been in the oven for too long before he transfers it to the fridge. Mycroft doesn't cook, generally, because usually Greg insists or they eat in restaurants; but it doesn't mean he _can't_ cook. He's quite an adept chef when it comes to it - Mycroft finds he's actually enjoying himself as he dices onions and stirs the sauce. When the steak is just finishing up in the oven, he goes upstairs to change his clothes, which he finds are stained with flour and slightly rumpled after the long day he's had.

Mycroft spends a good half of the ten minutes he has to spare agonising over his appearance in the mirror. His walk-in wardrobe is quickly becoming uncharacteristically untidy due to the fact that he seems to have rifled through every rail of clothes looking for something suitable for an evening as important as this one; so far he's found nothing. Eventually, heaving a weary sigh, Mycroft settles for a grey three-piece, and, after another awfully long moment of consideration, decides to neglect wearing a tie for the evening. Gregory only seems to enjoy removing them to suck love bites onto Mycroft's neck, anyway - well, this just saves him the job.

He looks adequate at best, but hopefully the meal and place settings will be enough to distract Greg from his lacklustre appearance for the moment. Doing his best to ignore the nervous flutter in his stomach, Mycroft returns to the kitchen to find his best tablecloth.


	2. Something Precious

Greg's exhausted. It's nearly eight thirty, and he's still sitting at his desk, working his way through paperwork that theoretically doesn't need to be finished until Tuesday. Through bleary eyes he glances at his phone display, too tired to raise his head to glance at the clock.

Christ. When did it get to half past nine?

He could have gone home hours ago - in fact, Mycroft was probably expecting him to leave just after five. He should, technically, have been able to make it back to Mycroft's for half past, and yet here he is, pen gone slack in his hand, still half-poised over his page. Suddenly, he can't summon the energy to make the ink form words, so he drops the ballpoint, pockets his phone and shrugs his jacket back on. He can't hide out at the Yard all night.

It's not as if he hasn't considered just returning to his own flat. Mycroft hasn't replied to his text, hasn't called, hasn't dropped Greg's bags off at the door of his office - so Greg can pretty much work out what to expect when he gets home. _Home_ , Greg thinks with a frown - he'd scoff if he had the energy left - _when did I start thinking of Mycroft's place as home?_

Well, he figures he can stop that train of thought right in its tracks. He hasn't bothered to even tap out a simple _it's over_ text, so maybe Mycroft is so disgusted with him that he'll avoid him altogether when Greg returns to pick up his stuff. Maybe it'll already be waiting for him in the hall.

Greg scrubs a hand across his eyes, gritting his teeth. He might as well get it over with now, rather than put it off any longer. He's given up lying to himself that he considers the whole situation to be his fault - he's pissed at Mycroft, dammit, because surely he could have had the decency to at least respond in kind? But of course he simultaneously realises that technically he has no right to be angry - and isn't that what he's been telling himself all along?

Greg's not sure he can make the journey back to the house with the way his hands are trembling, so he stops for a cigarette before he reaches his car. The smoke rises up in plumes before his eyes; he watches the curls with a vague disinterest as they ascend and disintegrate, his mind elsewhere.

Eventually, when the cigarette has burned down to a stub, Greg stamps it out under his shoe and climbs into the car, feeling at least a little better for having the nicotine in his system. He's been trying to quit for years but to no avail - he smokes when he's stressed - which, admittedly, is most of the time now - when he's tired, and when he's miserable. In essence, Greg smokes with growing frequency.

He huffs to himself at the thought that he's quickly becoming a twenty-a-day man, turning the key in the ignition and guiding his car out onto the road.

Greg expects his anger to dissipate as he navigates the car down the darkened, lonely streets, but it doesn’t. The empty pavements are only broken up by the occasional drunk, wandering too far from the club scene, and, memorably, by a beggar setting up camp for the night in a closed shopfront, who staggers to the middle of the road so Greg has to swerve to avoid knocking the bastard over. He’d yell something out of the window about being a police officer, but it’s late and he’s tired and he doesn’t reckon the homeless man would much care, so he swears under his breath and carries on driving.

He’s exhausted when he gets to Mycroft’s – rubbing grit from his eyes and squinting a little under the harsh porch light. He climbs the three steps up to the front door and fishes his key from his jacket pocket, wincing internally at the silence that greets him when he gently opens the door and lets himself inside.

He mentally catalogues the state of the hall as he nudges the door shut behind him with his foot – no bags by the stairs, which is probably a good sign (unless Mycroft’s had someone drop them back at Greg’s flat – shit, maybe he should have gone back there after all), hall light switched off (in fact, all the lights except those in the dining room are off – maybe Mycroft’s waiting in there for Greg to come home?) and there’s a faint smell of cooking emanating from the kitchen, probably from his lover making himself dinner.

Greg goes through to the dining room, fully prepared to be laughed right out again, or for a fully-fledged shouting match, or maybe both, he really isn’t sure anymore – but it’s empty. No sign of Mycroft slumped at the huge mahogany table, no slender silhouette in the window, nothing. Except…

It takes Greg a moment to fully register the burned-down candles in brass candlesticks on the table, the crisp white tablecloth draped over the wood, the two place settings (one half-eaten, one still with a full piece of steak and salad set out on it) with a wine bottle in the centre. He isn’t sure what to make of it – Mycroft hadn’t mentioned having company for dinner – until he steps a little closer and sees the note, propped up against the red wine:

_Gregory, I’m afraid I may have been reading more into our arrangement than appears to be present – and for this, I apologise. I imagine you’ll require some space after this mishap; as will I. I will also understand if you wish to terminate our arrangement altogether. I can arrange to have your things sent to your flat if you’d prefer. I always did consider anniversaries to be a nauseating concept. Yours, Mycroft._

For a second, Greg forgets how to breathe. In the next, he’s snatching the note from the table and throwing himself up the stairs, things clicking into place, finally, in his weary brain after such a long day.

He berates himself for not having come straight home and finding Mycroft waiting for him in the dining room, so they could have eaten together and talked things over, finally been on the same page. He imagines Mycroft sitting at the table alone, waiting an extra half an hour despite knowing the traffic conditions weren’t what was keeping Greg so late, and eventually resigning himself to picking at his own plate before retiring to bed, thinking that Greg doesn’t _care._

Greg bursts into the bedroom and breathes a sigh of relief upon finding Mycroft lying on his stomach, draped across the king sized bed, face hidden in the pillows, still wearing a slightly rumpled three-piece suit, looking so devastatingly sexy that it takes Greg a minute to catch his breath.

“You didn’t answer my text.”

* * *

 

“Gregory?” Mycroft isn’t quite successful at masking the surprise in his tone, and he slowly picks himself up off the bed to look the other man over. Oh, he heard him come in, of course, but the quick pace of his footsteps certainly suggested that Gregory had come upstairs with the sole intention of retrieving the pair of shoes he’d left in Mycroft’s wardrobe last week.

Gregory looks exhausted – he’s been running his hand through his hair so it stands on end, a clear sign of fatigue – stress? – and he’s blinking rather rapidly. Mycroft can smell the cigarette smoke from across the bedroom – both, then. Apparently his lover – ex-lover? – has spent the afternoon and most of the evening filling in paperwork at the Yard – there are ink stains on his right hand from where he’s rested it on the page for too long, and a slight mark on his left cuff where he spilled sub-par coffee on his desk and attempted to mop it up using his sleeve.

Paperwork means no pressing case. No pressing case means… stalling? Avoiding him, for some reason? There is no conceivable way Gregory could have found out about Mycroft’s plans – after all, they were only decided mid-afternoon; a spur of the moment idea. So- Mycroft doesn’t come to a conclusion, he simply furrows his brow and asks, “What text?”

“You didn’t- You didn’t get it?” Greg asks, frowning. Mycroft hates the confusion clouding his mind, and frantically attempts to come up with some sort of valid reasoning behind what is happening. The only thing he can think of is his phone, still downstairs in his study, abandoned after Mycroft dismissed the agonising wait for his lover’s return as futile. Had Gregory texted that he was going to be late back? Had paperwork more pressing than Mycroft first assumed? No. Ink stain patterns suggest lethargy – he certainly hadn’t been rushing to complete the forms.

“My phone is… downstairs. I haven’t looked at it since this afternoon,” Mycroft mumbles after a heartbeat, looking slightly ashamed of himself. He needs the facts, now, because all of a sudden it doesn’t seem like Gregory is leaving just yet, and the familiar bloom of hope is swelling in his chest once again. Mycroft finds he really doesn’t have the energy left to quash it.

“My, I… I think you should check your phone,” Greg says, glancing at his shoes. Embarrassment? He isn’t blushing yet, but Mycroft looks away before he has the chance to, wanting to spare Gregory as much awkwardness as he can during this conversation.

“Downstairs,” he repeats by way of explanation. Greg sighs, reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out his own phone, and navigates to what Mycroft can only assume is their most recent text thread.

“Here,” Gregory says softly, nudging the phone in Mycroft’s direction. When he looks down at the screen, he finds his gaze immediately flickers to the last text he’d sent – _Dinner, tonight, my treat. I’ll send a car at seven if it suits you – MH_ and then to Gregory’s response – _Dinner sounds good, make it seven thirty though? Got some work that needs finishing up – GL_. That had been the night before, and dinner had turned into drinks that had turned into a juvenile snogging session in the back of one of Mycroft’s cars.

He allows his eyes to wander down to the most recent message, and reads it once, twice, three times. His frown deepens when he realizes the words make no more sense the third time than they did the first.

_Happy anniversary, My – GL xx_

He checks the time sent just to be sure – 3:04 p.m. Shortly after Mycroft had decided to prepare dinner. Gregory hadn’t forgotten. Gregory had... remembered? Somehow the words feel foreign in his head, and Mycroft is overcome by the need to profess his profound love and undying adoration for this man in front of him – _love is a fool’s errand_ , he reminds himself fiercely. Mycroft Holmes does not love.

Except, it seems, he does.

He won’t say it, of course, not now. Not while his note sits downstairs after being obviously read by Gregory and while too many words hang unsaid between them. So he waits, patiently, rolling the words of Gregory's text message around in his mind until they make even less sense than they had originally.

"Mycroft?" Greg asks. Mycroft glances up at the other man, startled out of his reverie. He hadn't realised his lover's gaze is focused so intently on him, apparently waiting for a reply that Mycroft doesn't yet have.

"I made dinner," he says, stupidly, blinking up at Greg, who looks completely baffled, "It's probably cold now, but if you're hungry we could heat it up."

Greg raises his eyebrows slightly, head angled in a slow, bemused nod. Mycroft blinks again, feeling like a deer caught in a set of headlights, and wonders how to remedy the situation.

"So you're not... leaving, then," he says, wondering if he should phrase it as a question rather than a statement. Gregory looks startled at the change in topic, but shakes his head resolutely, sending waves of relief rolling over Mycroft. He feels a little of the tension that has accumulated in his shoulders over the past few hours ease, and appears to snap back into himself. He is Mycroft Holmes, he occupies a 'minor' position in the British bloody government, for goodness sake - he can certainly string together a coherent response in a conversation that so obviously needs to be had.

"It would be perfectly fine if you were," he states, just in case. He isn't entirely sure how else to view Greg's text as anything other than what he assumes - hopes - it is, but he'd rather lay all his cards out on the table rather than risk another misunderstanding at this point. It seems even he can miss something. He wonders if he should have noticed - any signs of excess stress last night, hints of desperation in Greg's kisses? Lingering glances over the breakfast table, hesitation in the doorway, lengthened moments of consideration throughout the previous night's dinner?

"My-" Gregory begins, but Mycroft cuts him off.

"I am merely trying to say that I would be perfectly amenable to... continuing our arrangement after a brief... break, if you will. In a purely sexual manner, of course. Consider it more of a business arrangement than anything romantic-"

"Is that what you want?" Greg asks slowly, easing himself closer to sit beside his lover on the bed. As he draws nearer, Mycroft gets a whiff of the cheap cologne Greg insists on using, under the cigarette smoke; the smell makes him smile, fleetingly. He loves how Greg smells. He wants to bury his face in his lover's neck and inhale that perfect, musky scent, litter gentle kisses to Gregory's jawline - but he mustn't, because there are things that must be resolved first. The thought makes Mycroft want to groan, but he never has been one for groaning, so he purses his lips instead.

Mycroft considers lying, then flashes back to Greg's message, "No, Gregory. That isn't what I want at all."

Gregory makes a small, choked sound in the back of his throat, and reaches out to pull Mycroft closer. He remembers, for a brief millisecond, that his suit is still creased and the top two buttons of his collar are wide open, that his hair is mussed up and his face is probably reddened where the pillow has imprinted folds on his cheeks - and then he forgets, because Greg's lips are on his own and _God_ , he thought he was going to lose this.

Greg pulls away after a moment, but only to kiss his way down Mycroft's neck. His tongue is hot and wet against the tender skin there - he sucks a deep red mark at the base of his lover's throat which elicits a moan on Mycroft's behalf.

"You don't know how long I've waited for you to say that," Greg whispers into Mycroft's ear, and he exhales a little too sharply.

"I didn't think you wanted... anything particularly serious," he manages to gasp, feeling Gregory's hands slip under his shirt to rub up and down his back. Greg chuckles against him, hands stilling so Mycroft can savour the delicious warmth against his skin.

"I thought you'd have had a right laugh if I'd said anything," he murmurs. The way Greg's holding him makes Mycroft feel treasured, as if he's something precious, worth cradling in his lover's embrace. He wonders if now is the right time to say...

"I wouldn't have laughed. I... I'd been wanting to tell you, but I didn't think any sort of advance would be a welcome one..."

"For a genius, My, you really can be an idiot sometimes," Greg says, but he's chuckling as he says it, and he can feel Mycroft smiling against his skin where he's hiding his face in Greg's neck, "Just- I need us to be clear on this now, though. I can't- I don't want any more misunderstandings," Greg continues after a brief pause, thumbs still rubbing lazy circles onto Mycroft's back. His lover glances up at him, and Greg can see him visibly swallow, see a hint of- is that _fear_ in Mycroft's eyes? Christ. Greg hadn't realised that the other man is in this as deep as he is. For a second the effect is staggering, and it takes him a moment to regain track of what he intends to say.

"I just need to know that we're on the same page," Greg says quickly, withdrawing his hands so that he can smooth away the worry etched onto Mycroft's face with gentle fingers, "I'm serious about us, My. If I'd realised you felt the same way I'd have said something much sooner. I want this - _us_ \- to be a lasting thing. Is that- If you don't, it's fine, I just-"

"I love you," Mycroft blurts, and it's too _soon_ , he knows it is, and he wishes he could take the words back as soon as they leave his mouth because he's sure he didn't used to be this idiotic before Gregory came along-

Or maybe he doesn't want to take them back, because Greg is _smiling_ and looking up at Mycroft as if it's the best thing he's ever heard. Mycroft might well have just spurted a previously undiscovered Shakespearean sonnet, the way his lover's eyes have lit up.

"Really?" Greg echoes, as if he can't quite believe it. It's Mycroft's incredulous chuckle that makes its way to the surface then, and his turn to litter kisses along Gregory's collarbone.

"Yes, _really_. Honestly, Gregory, it's a wonder you didn't notice. I was afraid I was being rather... obvious, at times. I feared you'd realise and-"

Mycroft chokes off, finding himself unable to say the words. He's vaguely aware of Gregory making soothing circles with his thumbs against his shoulders, can hear his lover's gentle _shh_ sounds as if he's suddenly very far away, and then, before he is fully conscious of them, Mycroft feels the traitorous wetness of his own tears on his cheeks. Gregory moves instinctively to wipe them away, the pads of his fingers smoothing away the droplets before he moves to kiss Mycroft's face so tenderly that it worries Mycroft, for a brief moment, that the motion is only going to cause more of the vile tears.

"I'm not going anywhere, My. I'm here as long as you want me," Greg whispers, "And, for the record, I love you too. _God_ I never thought I'd get to say it. I love you. I'll never get tired of saying it, My." And then they're both laughing, kissing each other languidly, and Greg _won't_ ever tire of this, being here, wrapped in the arms of the man he loves.

"I'm sorry I didn't come straight home," Greg mumbles, knowing that Mycroft will have already worked it out and that at this point it's useless attempting to lie, "You put so much effort into the meal, I'm sorry-"

"There will be plenty more dinners, Gregory. The only thing that matters is that I have you here now. I'd much rather things work out as they have than any other way," Mycroft replies, trying not to think of all the other ways the evening might have played out. An awkward dinner in the huge dining room, each man trying to avoid the subject of the importance of the particular date, didn't bear thinking about.

"Does this mean I can finally put the flat on the market, then?" Greg asks with a mischievous grin, glancing up to gauge his lover's reaction. He doesn't miss the slight widening of Mycroft's eyes, as if up to this point he wasn't sure whether or not Greg was just having him on, and then his expression softens and Mycroft huffs a laugh.

"I'll have to invest in a new set of drawers," he says, as if he doesn't have a thousand bloody guest rooms with empty bureaus in each bloody one of them. Greg rolls his eyes and sinks further into Mycroft's embrace, so that they're lying side by side, arms still wrapped around one another.

"I love you like this, y'know," Gregory murmurs seductively, causing the first hints of a frown to appear at Mycroft's brow. "All rumpled and dishevelled. You're gorgeous," he continues, tugging playfully at Mycroft's untucked shirt. He can't help the incredulous snort that escapes him at Gregory's words, and Greg frowns, wondering if he's said something to offend.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, you're gorgeous all the time, no matter what you wear. But when you're like this... It makes you seem less... untouchable, if you know what I mean. This is the part of you only I get to see. I love that."

Mycroft doesn't quite know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything; simply mumbles a noise of contentment and snuggles closer to his lover - his _love_ \- and closes his eyes, suddenly overcome by exhaustion. He wonders whether he should offer to fetch Greg something from the fridge - he probably hasn't eaten since his lunch break, after all - or whether more amorous activities should be introduced - it _is_ their anniversary, after all - but Greg doesn't seem to mind. He squeezes Mycroft's hand reassuringly before his weight shifts on the bed - taking off his shoes, then - and Mycroft hears the soft slip of fabric as Greg undoes his tie and tosses it into a far corner of their room, unbuttons his shirt and dumps that, too, unceremoniously on the carpet before yanking off his belt and trousers, leaving him in just his underwear; before he slips back under the covers to join the other man.

One hand snaking up to stroke Mycroft's hair and the other sliding across his waist to wrap protectively around him, Greg murmurs, "So, are we- I mean, do you want to-" he falters, his right hand stilling in Mycroft's hair. The other man blinks drowsily up at him, confusion fading as he takes in Gregory's expression. He's chewing on his bottom lip, blinking rapidly as if embarrassed. Mycroft smiles faintly as the pieces click slowly into place.

"You're wondering whether we should tell people," he says softly. Greg nods, almost shyly, looking up at Mycroft through his eyelashes. It takes him a second to gather himself together enough to reply while Greg is looking at him like that, but he manages - just about, "That rests entirely with you, Gregory. I doubt I myself have many people to tell - my parents, perhaps. Anthea, of course, is already aware, and as for my brother..."

"What?" Greg asks, suddenly visibly panicked, "Sherlock- Sherlock _knows_?"

"Of course he knows, Gregory. Did you honestly think you were successful in concealing the details of our affair from the world's only consulting detective?" Mycroft asks, and there's a smile in his voice. Greg knows the brothers don't really get along, but Mycroft cares for Sherlock deep down, and it's obvious in the undercurrent of affection hidden in his tone. He's still feeling a bit shell-shocked from the revelation that Sherlock is aware that Greg has been shacking up with his brother for a year now, despite only ever calling him in on a case on the days when he's actually managed to change his clothes from the night before and never mentioning Mycroft's name other than in reference to a case. He thought he'd been doing a pretty good job of it, too, because Sherlock hadn't once-

"He didn't say anything," Greg points out, eyebrows furrowed into a frown, "He's Sherlock, why would he have kept it quiet?"

"He's rather afraid his own... _relationship_ with Doctor Watson would be brought under scrutiny if he publicly aired the details of ours. I explicitly warned him against it, and he's in enough of a sulk not only to have disabled the surveillance cameras around the flat but to keep his mouth shut about us."

Greg's taken aback for a moment, mulling it all over, and then one part of Mycroft's speech catches up with him, and he blinks a little, dazed, "You mean... John and Sherlock, they're..." Greg trails off, mouth hanging slightly agape as he searches for the right words. Of course, he'd _suspected_ but to have those suspicions confirmed was a different matter entirely.

"For a few months now. My brother seems to be afraid that Doctor Watson will... retreat if he demands more of a public relationship, having just recently overcome his obvious sexual identity crisis, so he's attempting to keep it under wraps. As for John... As I'm sure you're aware, Sherlock can come off as being rather reserved when it comes to displays of affection. Neither wants to push the other too far."

"Sounds like us," Greg mutters, "It just goes to show that all of this could have been resolved much more quickly with a better level of communication," he grins into the darkness, huffing a drowsy laugh, "I'll talk to John the next time we go for a pint, nudge him in the right direction." Greg can feel himself beginning to slur his words, tiredness hitting him suddenly as the day catches up to him.

"Yes, do just that, but as for right now, you're exhausted. You should sleep," Mycroft says softly, "We both should. We have the whole weekend to spend talking, if you wish."

"Oh, I can think of much better things to do than talking..." Greg mumbles. Mycroft chuckles beside him and plants a kiss in Greg's hair.

"Night, My. Love you," Greg whispers into the darkness, pressing a firm kiss to Mycroft's shoulder-blade. Mycroft shifts slightly on the bed to allow himself better access to Gregory's lips, and their mouths meet in the dark for a chaste kiss that grants each man the knowledge that the other is smiling against him.

"Goodnight, Gregory. I love you too."

* * *

 

The next morning, Mycroft wakes to find Gregory missing, and panics for a brief second, a million equally unpleasant scenarios rushing through his head as his left hand shoots out to frantically pat the mattress on Greg's side. Still warm - he hasn't been up long, then. Perhaps he went to the bathroom? Mycroft can't hear running water and the light's still off in the hall.

His heart stills when his fingers connect with a slightly crumpled piece of paper left on Gregory's pillow - _Oh, God, has he changed his mind, is he leaving, has he gone?_ and Mycroft slowly brings the note up to his bleary eyes, squinting a little in the dim light.

_My, I'm just downstairs if you wake up before I come back to bed. I love you. Greg x_

Mycroft feels himself relax, tension uncoiling from his muscles and his pulse slowing. He recalls the previous night with perfect clarity, and his heart, which he can no longer deny the existence of, aches for his lover.

Mycroft swings his legs off the bed, groaning a little when he realises he's still wearing yesterday's crumpled clothes, and drags a hand through his hair before padding out into the hall. He can hear the tap of fingers on a keyboard and glimpses the light under the door of his study - Gregory's logged onto his computer, then. Doing his best to ignore the nagging feeling of vulnerability that comes with a creased shirt and messy hair, Mycroft creeps downstairs and knocks lightly on the door of his study, not wanting to disturb Gregory in case he's seeking a moment's solace.

"Morning, love. You can come in, I was just about to come back to bed," Greg's voice filters into the hall a few seconds later. Mycroft turns the door handle and lets himself into the room, smiling at the sight of his lover in a similarly dishevelled state; Gregory is still clad in his boxers, and he's slipped one of Mycroft's robes on, knotted at the waist. His silver hair stands on end where he's been running his hands through it, and he yawns hugely in his chair before turning to grin at Mycroft.

"Kettle's just boiled, I'll make tea if you want," Greg suggests a second later, clicking his laptop shut - he hasn't been using Mycroft's desktop, then (a private issue?) - and standing to kiss Mycroft on the nose. Behind him, the printer whirs, and Greg throws a furtive glance in its direction, a blush rising to his cheeks.

"I'll make it," Mycroft offers, sensing that Greg has something to attend to in the study, "You finish up in here." After one last, lingering kiss, Mycroft tears himself away from his lover and heads to the kitchen to make the tea.

* * *

 

Greg joins him a few minutes later, when two steaming mugs stand on the counter between them, clutching something behind his back and avoiding Mycroft's eyes. He doesn't question him, simply nods towards Greg's mug and asks brightly, "Shall we go back to bed?"

"Er, yeah. In a minute. I just... want to give you this first," Greg mumbles, looking down at the floor. Curiosity piqued, Mycroft raises his eyebrows expectantly, and Greg holds out the piece of paper he's been keeping behind his back, staring resolutely at one of the bar stools as he does so.

"What's this?" Mycroft asks as he unfolds the page. Greg clears his throat.

"It's, er... Late anniversary present."

It's all Greg can do not to run away and hide as he watches Mycroft scan the paper. He'd meant it as a joke, mostly, in celebration of the previous evening and to reassure Mycroft that he wasn't taking any of what he had said back. Stupid, really, but he'd found the thing on Groupon when he'd got up to check his emails (so that he could avoid all traces of work and spend the entire weekend in bed with Mycroft) and it had struck him as both ironic and resonant in the context of the previous evening. He's berating himself for it now, but if it brings even the slightest hint of a smile to Mycroft's eyes it'll be worth every penny of the two hundred quid he's just spent on booking them a week at a fancy couple's retreat in the Lakes. It's not as if he's struggling for cash - he just hopes Mycroft sees it as an attempt to lighten the mood rather than as some sort of personal insult. And, oh Christ, now he's thinking of all the ways this stupid 'joke' can be taken incorrectly, and he's about to snatch the booking reference from Mycroft's hands to tear it into the smallest pieces possible and dump them in the nearest bin when his lover smiles up at him.

"It's silly, I suppose, I just-"

"Nonsense, Gregory. It's a lovely gesture. A lovely idea," Mycroft says, leaning in for another kiss, this time with just the barest hint of tongues, "I'll rearrange my schedule for the third of June. Perhaps this will allow us to 'better our communication'?"

"We don't have to actually- It's going to be impossible for us both to get time off, and it's probably a terrible idea anyway, it was just a silly gesture, really-" Greg babbles desperately. Not once had he considered the actual implications of _going_ on the retreat - it had been nothing more than a joke, but now Mycroft is looking at him like it's the best thing he could have come out with.

"I'll take care of it," Mycroft says gently, pushing Greg's own mug into his hands, "Thank you, Gregory. It's wonderful."

Greg finds himself laughing - this whole situation is absurd - as Mycroft takes his free hand and begins to tow him back upstairs. He'll let himself worry about a week filled with _couples' bonding_ and _group therapy_ another time - right now, he has Mycroft all to himself, and he doesn't intend to let that go to waste. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! Hope you enjoyed.  
> I'm just going to sit here pretending ideas for a sequel aren't running through my brain... :P


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